


Burning Hearts

by QueenOfMotherfuckingTerrasen



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: AKA A MESS, Again. Everyone is G A Y, Albert and Race flirt with Delanceys for more papes, And bet money on it, Both Spot and Race are gay, By that I mean Jack and Davey, Crutchie is both soft and not, Davey is his boyfriend, Davey is like an Ap student, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, FUCK, Fight je, Get rekked Delancey!, Im shipping blush now, Jack is h e l l a bi, Katherine is his ex. And best friend., Kid Blink is a little chinchilla of rage, Les and Davey are in school and working, M/M, Medda supports all her gay sons, Those two are together, You hurt Jack and Davey will just launch himself at you, boy will be kind and smile, but also will beat the shit out of you with his crutch, even though he doesn't fight, everyone knows about jack and davey, everyone knows sprace is gunna happen, likewise with Jack if Davey is being hurt, they are cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 18:13:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15646218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfMotherfuckingTerrasen/pseuds/QueenOfMotherfuckingTerrasen
Summary: One night, the Manhattan Newsies Lodgehouse burns down. No one knows why or how the fire started but thankfully no one was killed. Still, most of the boys are without a home. The Jacobs family opens their home, Jack Kelly and Crutchie among the few they can manage. Katherine has taken to smuggling some boys in the family mansion under her father's nose. But Racetrack Higgins?He finds himself walking over the Brooklyn bridge in nothing but his boxers and hat. Time to pay Spot Conlon a visit.





	1. Fire Or Not, I’m Staying In Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manhattan Lodging burns down, Jack goes and lives with his boyfriend, and Race is on his way to his bf. Yes. That's it. Someone call the curtain!

No one knew how the fire started. The only known fact was it raged on and on with the intent to burn the lodging house down. It succeeded in doing as such. Thankfully, someone hollered "FIRE!!!!" and the scrambling panic set in. Newsies were gripping everything they owned, the important bits, money, everything. The nobler ones had taken off, alerting the other boys along with Jack and Crutchie on the roof. 

Racetrack Higgins didn't own much in life but he was scrambling about, gathering up all he carved out from working as a newsie. It wasn't much, just some money, his hat, and a journal that he'd found lying on the road, a copy of the article about the strike, that sort of stuff. After he had everything worth, Race ran out of the room and flew down the stairs.

He passed Jack on the way down,  carrying Crutchie over his shoulder, who was holding on for dear life. Jack was lucky, his drawing books stored away Medda's so his main concern was saving Crutchie and yelling at the newsies to get out of the building. Race tightened his hand on the railing of the stairs, he wasn't about to fall and break his neck or worse be tramped to death by the other newsies. 

Race rushed out of the building, his legs damn near giving out on him. He hadn't run that fast since the strike, his heaving lungs filled with nice cool air. It was like someone splashed freezing water on his face. He started coughing, forcing all that smoke out of his lungs. He looked around at his fellow newsies. Some were worse to wear, all of them looked like they'd been to hell and back.

More newsies scrambled out of the building, the last person Elmer who was half pulling, half carrying a sickly Buttons, sleeping at the lodge to get a good night sleep. _It must have been hard to sleep when you had eight other siblings always jabbering and chatting and fighting for attention,_ The thought flittered through Race's head before he rememeber that he had like, fifty brothers. The newsies were a family, a wierd one. 

 On a good note, Race couldn't hear anymore movement of more newsies or screaming. The bad news was the building was already fucking collapsing. The a good chunk of the Manhattan newsies stared at the lodge. The fire crackled, sputtering embers and debris. They all backed up a couple feet, listened to the sirens of the fire department. After a few minutes, Jack cleared his throat. "I'm going start a roll call." His voice was raspy after inhaling smoke from when he went looking for other newsies. He'd set down Crutchie, letting him lean on him. It was obvious that somewhere in the burning lodge house was Crutchie's crutch.

"Albert!" Jack hollered. Albert grunted back a 'here' and Jack moved on. Jack went through name after name, not sparing time on the Newsies that had familes and a home. Davey and Les were good examples, they were still selling. 

 "NOT DEAD!" Race yelled to his own name, letting Jack move on. After a few tense minutes, they all came to realize one fact. No one was dead. That was the headline despite sub-title that they were homeless until Pulitzer built another lodge. If Pulitzer built another lodge.

"Well, this fucking sucks." Albert deadpanned, one of Race's stolen cigars lit in his hand. 

"No shit," Race shot back, stealing back his cigar and took a drag. Albert glared at him. In the end, they traded the cigar back and forth. 

"What do we do now?" Romeo asked in a sullen voice. He had every right to be hopeless. They had no homes. No families. Almost all of any money they'd stored was currently on fire. A couple younger ones had tears in their eyes, refusing to let them drip down their cheeks. 

It was Crunchie who spoke up, not Jack. That was a bit of suprise but it wasn't a really usual night."We find homes. I'm sure Katherine can help. Maybe the Jacobs can take some of us. There's the Sisters. If you know where you'll be stayin' - head there. We'll regroup in the morning." Jack beamed with pride. The Newsies started dividing themselves and deciding who was going to the Jacobs or Katherine or if they'd try the church or just snooze on the streets.

"You got a place, Race?" Mike (or Ike) asked him. 

"Yeah, don't you be worrying about me," Racetrack found himself heading towards the Brooklyn Bridge, in nothing but his boxers and hat. It was time to pay Spot Conlon a visit.


	2. I Should’ve Stayed In Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arguing over the one-bed troupe dies here.

The day was nothing special. Spot paid for his papes, sold them, and spent the rest of the night managing the newsies of Brooklyn. He'd stop by the racetracks to visit with Race, bet on a couple of horses. Later, he played his usual round of poker with the boys before going to bed at some ungodly hour. That was his routine although it varied every day, that was its foundation. It wasn't normal for one of his newsies to be poking him awake.

"What?" He hissed after swatting her away. He rubbed his eyes to see Warrior, one of the female newsies. She fought everything, having a worse temper than Spot himself. Warrior wasn't scared of Spot, even going as far as arguing with him on a few occasion. Although troublesome, she was loyal to the bone.

She looked concerned, her mouth in a tight line. Her foot tapped at a rhythm whenever she was nervous. Warrior was never nervous, she was always angry. If Warrior was nervous...something was wrong. "You gotta see this, Spot," said she.

He dressed in a hurry, shoving his hat over his dark hair. The moon was still big and bright through his window, so he guessed it was somewhere between two and three in the morning. Hours before the circulation bell. Warrior left the room and he followed behind her. The lodge house was quiet, as quiet as it could be with snores and hushed whispers of th newsies still awake. They passed rooms with open doors where the newsies were either sleeping, talking or kissing. With the later, Spot would shut the door and continue going down. 

Once they reached the front door, Warrior turned and told Spot that  "You can open it," Before she ran back up the stairs. He did a double take after opening the door. There stood Race Higgins. Looking very different than he did mere hours ago when he was selling at the racetracks, smoking his cigar, wearing his usual shirt and hat with that sarcastic smirk on his face. Now he stood in nothing but his boxers and his hat, he still had his cigar, covered in ashes. He reeked of smoke and his lips were thin in a neutral expression. In summary, he looked like he went to hell and walked right out.

"What the Hell happened to you?"

Race took a drag. "I've had a rough night."

"No shit," 

He arched a brow, taking another drag. "What happened to you, Racetrack?" Spot prodded, his eyes sweeping over the half-naked boy. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he pause over one specific part before darting back up. 

With his free hand, Race pointed at a big plume of smoke in the distant, somewhere in Manhatten. "See that? That's the lodge house." Spot stared at it, bewildered by the idea that the Manhatten Lodge House had burned down. That it was gone and Race...Race didn't have a home anymore. "I didn't have anywhere else to go," 

Spot managed not to melt from the sadness in Race's voice. "Get in here, you idiot." Practically pulling him inside and started pushing him upstairs. "You can stay as long as you want." 

"You sure, you got the room? I don't want to be a bother!" Race protested as as they climbed the stairs. 

 "You can bunk with me and you're not a fucking bother." Spot debunked, as they slipped in his room. Race settled on the bed as Spot tried to find him some clothes. "Try this," He threw a shirt at him.

"Thanks," Race pulled it over his head before starting to make himself comfortable on the floor. 

"What the fuck are you doing? Get back on the bed!"

"I can sleep on the floor! You don't have to give up your bed!"

"We're both going to sleep on the fucking bed, you fucking idiot!" He cursed at him, Race threw his hands up and climbed back on the bed. Spot followed soon after undressing, climbing under the covers. "Get up an hour before the circulation bell and you should be fine." 

"Thanks," Race mumbled in the mattress.

"Your welcome." Spot whispered. After a couple of minutes, Racetrack began to snore and Spot soon followed in sleep. They slept fine, as if sleeping side by side was a usual occurance. Some nights, some unspoken nights, it was. Tonight was different.


	3. Extra! Extra! Spot Conlon Likes To Cuddle! Read All About It!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey is pissed at his boyfriend. That's literally all you need to know.

Spot was a heavy sleeper. Notoriously he slept through the alarm clock incident of 1896. When lodge house had first gotten their alarm clocks, they’d no idea how to set them properly. All one hundred and six alarm clocks went off at midnight. Chaos ensued while Spot kept snoring. Today was different, he started waking up as Race moved. 

“Mmm….where ya going?” He mumbled, still asleep. Racetrack stopped untangling himself from Spot’s grasp to stare at him for a minute, wondering if Spot was a fucking idiot. Already he regretted sleeping on the bed. He’d be up and ready if Spot wasn’t holding him so close, gripping him tightly as a lover. The thought made Race’s cheeks flush. 

“I gotta get back to Manhattan, idiot.” He said softly, trying not to make too much noise so he didn't wake the others. His fingers patted the nearby nightstand, looking for his hat in the darkness. One of Spot’s newsies had set out trousers that were Race’s size but they were near the door, to get to them, Race had to escape the clutches of Spot. 

“Stay,” The King of Brooklyn muttered, tugging Race closer, still nearly asleep. Race cursed under his breath, his cheeks flushing. He stayed down for maybe another minute before o nce again, he worked on untangling himself, trying to shake Spot’s grip. 

“Spot, you know I can’t do that. I gotta see the others and find out the plan.” Spot paid him no head, his grip tightening. Race sighed and grabbed his pillow. Withot thinking of the consequences, he proceeded to ssmack theKing of Brooklyn over the head with it. Spot woke up immediately, letting go of him as he sat up. 

“What the fuck was that for?!!” He roared.

“You wouldn’t let fucking go!” Race scrambled out of the bed, snatching up the trousers. He worked on connected the suspenders, securing them tightly. “I gotta be on my way to Manhattan!” 

Spot grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Right, right.” He unconsciously cracked his knuckles. “See you at Sheepshead?" 

Race’s hand was on the doorknob, gripping it lightly. “Yeah, yeah. See you there.” He turned the knob and flew down the stairs, out into the street. He reckoned he had about an hour to run or hitch a ride over. Racetrack didn’t waste time thinking, not about how Spot held him tight or how reluctant he was to pull away.

By the time he got to the square, half of the others were already there. They looked better than they had when Race saw them last. Most had washed, found clothes if they hadn’t any, grime smudge the ones that dared the streets. Davey and Jack were in a furious conversation, the Walkin' Mouth talking so fast that Race could barely catch what he was saying. Whether it was about something Jack did over the night or the fire, Race didn’t know but he caught snippets of it. 

“You’ve got to see Pulitzer! My family can’t support you five forever -” 

“I know,  _ I know _ , Davey! I’mma thinking of what to say.” Jack threw up his hands like they’ve been arguing about this since the wee hours of the morning. 

Davey cocked his head, placed his hands on his hips. “Jackie, you’ve said that since you all got to my house and if you still are  **_fucking_ ** thinking -”

“ _ Whoa!!! _ ” The entirety of the Manhattan Newsies cried. Someone covered Les’s ears who looked around confused with his entire face just screaming ‘???????’. It wasn’t anything new for one of them to swear, hell, Race was surprised that any of them could get through a single sentence without swearing, but  _ Davey _ ??? That was a once in a blue moon, when things have gone to  _ shit _ , or when Jack  _ really  _ pissed him off. It was like walking under a ladder, it meant bad luck.

Jack wrapped an arm around Davey’s shoulder and muttered something to him quietly, smoothing out the Walkin' Mouths ruffled feathers. Race walked towards Albert, shimming his way over the little intimate moment between the two turtledoves. “How long have the’ been arguing?” He muttered to his friend. 

“All mornin’. We got her’ early so we wouldn’t stress out Mrs. Jacobs,” Albert stared at the locked gates, trying to make the Delancey Brothers appear. “Jack slept with Davey, me and Finch crashed on their couch and Jojo and Romeo slept in the kitchen.” Albert rubbed his back. “Didn’t get much sleep. Me and Finch talked for hours. Whatta about you?”

“The King of Brooklyn was merciful.” 

“I’m surprised you came back at all,” That earned him a smack to the ribs. “Ow!”

“You deserved that, asshole!” Racetrack hissed right back. 

Then there was a whistle. Crutchie stuffed both fingers in his mouth and did what would eventually be a cab calling whistle. A hush settled over the newsies as they all looked up. Jack and Davey finished their arguing and now were perched on a stack of boxes. "All right, we got a plan!" Jack started. "Me, Katherine, and Davey are going to visit Pultizer after selling hours. We'll try and get a date on when the lodge house'll be done." 

"And!" Davey added, "We need volunteers for some of you to run to the other bouroghs. Ask for help, newsies have to take care of each other." A couple raised their hands and called out where they'd go two. Albert half near hollered that he'd take Queens. Elmer happily reported that the Sisters were willing to take some of them in, although not too many. The discussion was high but that was the general plan. Talk to Pulitzer, stay where they were staying, and see if the Newsies from the other bouroghs could help. It felt like the strike all over again. Minus the part they were getting beaten to bloody ribbons.

All of them looked up when they heard the clanging of the gates being unlocked. Newsies scrambled to grab their sacks, something they grabbed out of the fire. Jack and Davey climbed down, joining the fray. There was pushing and shoving, hitting and hissing of all sorts. Race and Albert shimmed in behind Jack and Davey. They paid for their newspapers, not mentioning a word about the fire. Hell, Race and Albert didn't talk smack to Weisel. Of course, they flirted with the Delancey Brothers.

"Say, Morris, you're looking awful nice today? Is that a new hat?" Albert went first, while Race batted his eyes at the younger brother. Morris opened his mouth to answer but his older brother nudged him with a hard glare and he shut it. It didn't exactly stop him from blushing or stuffing an extra ten papes in both of their bags. 

"Worth it." Albert muttered under his breathe as everyone departed, heading towards their selling spots. Race made his way to Sheepshead, bet on a couple horses and started hollering. 

"Extra! Extra! Manhatten Newsboys Lodge House Burned Down! Read all about it! Two hundred boys homeless!" He yelled, taking a short break hours later when Spot showed up. His own bag still had a couple of papes left but both of them were winding down for the night. "Long time no see," He grinned at the King of Brooklyn.

"Shut up, Racetrack." Togehter they watched the horses together, hollered at the ones they bet on, then went home together. It made Race's heart beat faster, made his face flush. If only he knew Spot was feeling the exact same way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, You must be thinking. Two chapters, in two days??? Impossible.  
> Get used to it baby.


	4. Fun Fact About Davey Jacobs: He's A M e s s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey Jacobs is a mess but Jack loves him.

Davey Jacobs was a mess. He studied non-stop, kissed Jack Kelly all the fucking time, and managed to function on five hours of sleep. That night, he was settling down to sleep when his mother opened his bedroom door. “David, there are some boys at the door. They’re asking for you.” She was wringing her hands, a nervous habit of hers. 

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll take care of it.” He reassured her and once she’d left, he dressed in a hurry to answer the door. On the Jacobs doorstep stood Jack Kelly. His heart fluttered at seeing Jack that he didn’t notice the other boys for a split second. There were four of them, Jack was carrying Crutchie who was lacking his notorious crutch. Strangely, they were all in sleepwear and covered in soot. 

“Jack! What are you doing here???” Davey leaned against the doorpost, eyeing up the boys. There was Albert, Finch, Jojo, and Romeo. They looked worse to wear. Davey succeeded in not staring too hard at Jack’s chest or his lips unless he wanted his wits gone. 

“Sorry, Davey, didn’t want to bother you but…” Jack took a breath, “the lodge house burned down.” So  _ that  _ was the smoke Davey saw out his window little more than ten minutes ago. “Can we come in…?” Jack tittered on the question, ready to leave if Davey said no.

Davey wanted to curse Jack Kelly’s soft eyes and lips, they drove Davey crazy. “I...I have to ask my parents first.” Jack nodded, the rest of the boys shuffled here and there. Davey shut the door slowly, making sure not to slam it. Then he raced to his parents' room, knocking until his mother opened it.

“Mom, Dad thelodgehouseburneddownandcansomeoftheguysstaywithus???” His mouth started running and he didn’t stop. This happened when he got too confident or rushing. Sarah laughed at him the first time he did it as a little kid, barely able to pronounce half the words right but not slowing down to correct himself. He could talk that fast in Yiddish too if he wanted too. 

“Whoa, there son, say that all again,” started his father.

“But slower!” added his mother. 

Davey resisted the urge to grit his teeth and snap, instead, he took a breathe and started all over again. He explained that his ~~boyfriend~~ friend, Jack Kelly home had burned down. That they were asking for charity, to stay a night or two. He waited for their answer as they thought it over, his mind racing for all the Torah’s sayings that were the equivalent of ‘love thy neighbor’ and such. 

“I don’t see why not,” said his mother, putting a hand on his father’s arm. “Bring them in, David.”

“Thanks, mom!” He yelled over his shoulder as he rushed back to the front door. He opened it quickly, “Get in before they change their mind!!” The boys shuffled in, taking most of the Jacobs living room. Jack gently set Crutchie on the couch. Davey wrung his hands together. “Hungry?” 

“For once, no,” Albert answered, the rest of them nodding with him. He made his way to the kitchen table and sat at the table. “Can me and Finch sleep in here?” 

“I’m sure I could get Les to share his -” Davey started.

“It’s fine,” Finch cut him off, joining Albert in the kitchen. “We use’ to sleeping on floors. Be better, actually.”

“If you want too…” Davey’s voice trailed off as the two boys got comfy at the table, intending to talk in hushed whispers. He turned to Jack, Jojo, Crutchie, and Romeo. “You guys want to sleep in here? Crutchie, you can take the coach.” 

Crutchie smiled at him. “Thanks, Davey,” He leaned back, prompt sinking into the soft cushions of the couch. It was better than the penthouse, better for his leg. Romeo settled on the other end while Jojo made himself comfortable in the chair where Davey’s father sat to read his newspaper.

He motioned Jack deeper into the house, leading him down the familiar path to his own bedroom. It wasn’t the first time Jack had seen it, although Davey cleaned up almost every time Jack visited or picked him up for a date. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to clean.” He shut the door behind him. Honestly, it was a mess with pens and homework was scattered on his desk in mess piles and his bed was rumpled. 

“Davey, ya know that I don’t care about that.” Jack settled on the window ledge, looking at ease in his room. If his parents weren’t home, they’d probably be sprawled out on the bed, kissing, teasing, doing something that was preached as unholy. They didn’t really care. Davey Jacobs was fine with going to Hell after all Jack Kelly was going to be there too. 

“Yeah but  _ I  _ do.” He teased, shuffling the papers in neat piles, putting the pens away, and finally straightening the covers of his bed. He felt Jack’s eyes on his ass but he kept moving, before finally sitting on the bed. “So what happened?” 

Jack shrugged. “I dunno. No one does.”

“You’re going to talk to Pulitzer, right? He likes you better since you and Katherine broke up.” 

“Yeah...I’mma thinking of what to say.” He started taking off his shirt, unbuttoning it. Apparently, Jack fell asleep right after selling hours, because he was still wearing his bright blue shirt, all that was missing was his shoes. He left it by the window, starting to settle on it, like...like he was intending to sleep on it. Davey narrowed his eyes at him.  _ Oh, this isn’t going to fly. _ He thought to himself. 

“If you are okay with sleeping on this bed after  _ sex  _ but not when your home  _ burned down _ , you and I are going to have a problem.” Davey hissed. Jack put up his hands and got in bed with Davey. Davey fumbled for the light, turning it off quickly before laying next to Jack, nose to nose, cheek to cheek. 

“Hey,” He muttered,

Jack’s mouth slipped into a smile. “Hey,” When Jack kissed him, Davey knew that he was far gone. And that they’d have to be  _ very  _ quiet tonight. 

Flash past a very awkward breakfast with the four Jacobs and the six Newsies, past the meeting at the square and getting his papes, to standing in front of Pulitzer’s office. He’d been twice, both times being during the strike. He squared his shoulders and resisted the urge to hold Jack’s hand.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Katherine said, smoothing out her dress. She’d dressed smartly in that purple dress she owned. 

“We’ve got to try.” was all Jack said.

Flash forward to a heated argument. _The author does not like this man and this author does not want to write about this man_. Joseph Pulitzer was anything but a thorn in their side. “And why shouldn’t I just cut my losses and not rebuilt?” 

The urge to punch something seized Davey but he kept his fists clenched and his mouth talking. “Because you’ll lose about 70% of your circulation. " Then just because he felt like fucking with him, he added, "That’s the bottom line.” 

Pulitzer scowled. “I’ll have to think about it, this is business after all. Hannah, show Mr. Kelly and Mr. Jacobs out.” Katherine managed to dig her heels in and stay, Jack and Davey fell victim to Hannah, Pulitzer's secutary. Jack's fist were clenched in anger, not giving a shit, grabbed Davey's hand.

Davey, equally fustrated, held onto it. "Let's go to Medda's." He managed.  Jack didn't speak so he started pulling him along, turning down streets until they found themselves at the backstage door of the Bowery Beauties. They slip in quietly and find a small seat in the back. Macbeth was playing, they watched in silence, hands clasped together. They stayed like this for a long time, watching production after production, even watching the beauties dance. Jack liked it, Davey didn't care for it. Hours later, Jack pulled Davey to his feet and muttered in his ear, "I wanna show ya something,"

He lead them to a prop room, filled with nicknacks from all different kinds of shows and plays. All covered in dust except for one. A full length, well slept in bed. Bright pink comforters and pillows but still, a bed. Davey flushed and looked at Jack. "You are the worse," 

Jack's arms wrapped around his waist, "Yeah, but you love me." They crashed on the bed, lips locked, legs tangeling, clothes discarded. Neither of them left the prop room for hours. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right. Another chapter. Get it, just like Davey.


	5. The Past Is Very Gay. And Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The background of Spot and Race. This is super long. I've been writing this since like....10:24 am. And I just finished it like ten minutes ago.

Spot and Race didn’t meet at the Strike. Everyone knew that since Racetrack was selling at the Sheepshead for five years now. Before it wasn’t unusual to see him at the tracks, watching but not selling. A Brooklyn boy sold close but he wasn’t  _ in  _ the tracks. After some careful thinking Race decided that maybe  _ he  _ should bring his papes to the Sheepshead and sell them. The idea ran smoothly for about two days before trouble found his way and slammed him right in the face, much like that Brooklyn boy fist did. 

The kid was twice his size but Race didn’t care, he hit him right back, fists clenched with his mouth in a snarl. They pushed each other under the bleachers, papes abandoned. It wasn’t long before it went downhill, two cracks to Race’s jaw and a fist to the ribs forced Race’s breath out of his chest. “What’s the problem?” came a gruff voice from the entrance of the bleachers, a shadow blotting out the sun. 

Race was pinned to one of the supports, pausing for a second before continuing to kick at his attacker. “Spot, it’s nothin’ important! Just taking care of a mol’,” said the Brooklyn boy. The shadow walked deeper and Race saw who it was. The legendary Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn. He was shorter than Race expected, with dark hair and eyes that burned like hot coals. He wore a bright red shirt with thick suspenders, a bruise forming on his lower jaw.

Race took his breaths when he could, although the King of Brooklyn stole it.  _ “Oh no, he’s hot.”  _ Race thought to himself as Spot approached.

“Put ‘em down, Wise Guy,”

“But, Boss - he ain’t no one important!” Wise Guy protested, his brows furrowed deeply. 

“Did I fucking  _ stutter _ ? Put ‘em down! Or do you want to start a turf war?!” Spot snapped and Race was dropped like a stone. He took another breath and shakingly got his feet. Then Spot had him pinned against the support beam, a hand right against his sternum. “What’s your name, kid?” 

“Racetrack Higgins,” Race answered, keeping his tongue in line, not wanting to get murdered by the King of Brooklyn. 

“Alright, Race. What part of the city, ya from?” Spot pressed a bit harder before resuming his usual grip.

“Manhattan.” 

Spot hissed under his breath, turning to look at Wise Guy. “You might’ve started a turf war!” He snarled. Wise Guy did the smart choice and slowly backed away, picked up his papes, and ran. “Fucking hell,” Spot cursed. “So,” He started, sounding calm but pissed off. “Why are ya doin’ here, Race?”

“To sell my papes...?” Race offered, rubbing his sternum. Oh, that was  _ so  _ going to bruise, along with his neck.

Spot lifted a brow. “You’re not here to spy?” 

Race resisted rolling his eyes. “Jack Kelly doesn’t send spies. He ain’t interested in Brooklyn.” 

“Is he now, then why are you here?” 

Racetrack gestured towards the tracks above them. “I like to watch them races. Thought I’d try and do it during business hours.” 

Spot rubbed his jaw, careful around the bruise still forming. “You sure you aren’t here to spy?”

“My name is  _ literally  _ Racetrack. We are  _ under  _ racetracks. My papes are still outside unless that….that…..guy took ‘em,” Race managed not to curse out Wise Guy and call him something nasty. “If I was a good spy, I would've sold my papes then spied.” 

“You just want to sell ya papes and watch the races?” Spot narrowed his dark eyes at Race, in an attempt to intimate him, catch him lying, or something.

“ _ Yes _ .” Race exaggerated. “It won’t happen again, sorry.”

“No. You can keep it up, it’s a good idea. Just don’t make the  _ others  _ think they’re welcomed,” Spot walked out, leaving a flabbergasted Race behind him. 

“What the fuck was that?” Race muttered to himself as he stepped out into the sun and gathered his papes. Money was to be made. 

It wouldn’t be the last time that Race saw Spot Conlon. First, the King of Brooklyn put a watch on him. Kids that weren’t selling, perched on a chair, doing something but they’d occasionally stare at Race. Watching. Race caught on pretty quick, he’d wave and smile at them. If he was in a good mood, he’d throw them a freebie. After a year and a half of selling at the Sheepshead, Spot stopped bothering with a watch. He came down himself. The King of Brooklyn wasn’t bad company. They’d talk about newsie things, bet on horses, and talk about girls. Or Race talked about boys that he liked and switched their names with regular girl ones. 

“How good you with cards?” Spot asked one day, watching the horse he’d bet on with a hawklike gaze. 

Race shrugged, “I’m okay.” They cheered when the horses finished another round, whistled for a little bit before settling back in conversation. “Why you askin’?”

“The boys and I have this game we do. Every Thursday, we stay up and play poker.” 

“Really? And what does this have to do with me?” Race continued to ask, chewing on his cigar. 

“I was thinking of inviting ya,” Spot said hesitantly. Race blinked, trying to keep his cheeks from flushing.  _ Shit, why is he so cute?  _ They both thought. 

“I’d be honored,” said Race. 

“Really???” Spot tried hard not to sound too excited but oh, he was. He’d get to introduce Race to his newsies, show him the lodge house.  _ God, what am I, a lovesick teenager? _ thought Spot. Well, Spot. Yes. You are.

“Yeah. We can go as soon as these races are done. COME ON, MISSY, RUN!!!!” Race yelled, cheering on his horse. Spot hide his smile, along with his flushed cheeks. Sure enough, they head there as soon as the races were done and they collected their  small  winnings. They chatted on the way, making jokes and laughed like pals. When Spot originally started hanging around the Manhattaner, most of his newsies were shocked. 

“ _You think he’s cute, don’t you?” Warrior asked, narrowing her eyes at the King of Brooklyn._ _  
_ _“What, no!” sputtered Spot._

_ “Oh, you so think he’s cute,” Warrior muttered to herself. _

_ “Off with ya, don’t ya have papes to be selling??” Spot barked at her. Warrior left laughing.  _

But now, it was the usual thing. Warrior still teased him but he’d seen her staring at a couple of girls. Solidarity in being Queer, he supposed. He opened the door for Race and the manhattan newsie stepped in, putting out his cigar. 

“Hey, Spot! We were about to start!” called Hot Shot from their little poker table in the corner. The pair walked over.

“Hey, who's this?” asked Bart, poking Race’s arm.

Race smiled at them. “Racetrack Higgins, at your service.” He did a mock bow and sat down. “Deal us in,” Spot sat next to Race, settling down for a couple rounds of poker. Someone bet a bottle of whiskey, Spot planned on winning that quick. They started playing and winning and losing, going on. The whiskey got opened and passed around. When it ran out, Hot Shot popped another opened. The night wore on and on with all of them drinking. Eventually, the other boys started slipping off to their beds, staggering and tripping over themselves. 

Race took one last drink from the bottle. “I….I’ve a gootta get hommeeee.” He was slurring his words, staggering to get up. Spot, who wasn’t any less drunk than Race, got a hand around his shoulder. 

“Sleep here, it’s safer,” He managed. Race who was tired from a day's work and super drunk didn’t argue as Spot helped him up the stairs, occasionally both of them leaned against the wall and held their stomachs. When they finally got to Spot’s room, Race didn’t hesitate to climb in bed, didn’t ask if he could sleep on the floor. His head was spinning, the bed was not. Spot joined him, both of them staring at the ceiling, alcohol sloshing in their stomachs. 

“The room’s spinning….” Race mumbled, shutting his eyes. Spot turned to face him, staring at the taller boys golden curls, his soft lips and his eyes just wandered and wandered and wonder. To Race’s long arms, his long legs, his chin….everywhere. 

“It ain’t spinning. You’re spinning.” Spot retorted.

Race opened his eyes, staring at him. “You’re not spinning.” He inched closer until they were nose to nose, cheek to cheek. Almost touching but not. 

“Neither are you,” Spot muttered. He dared to inch closer. One more inch, their lips would touch. 

That’s when Racetrack looked him dead in the eyes, inched forward, and pressed his mouth against Spot’s. It was warm and wet but Spot was too drunk to care, kissing him back. They kept on kissing, breaking for air only to go back until their lips were swollen. Race broke first, flopping back on the bed. His eyes were shut, his lips in a loose smile.

“Sppoooot?” He muttered.

“What?” Spot’s heart was beating fast, his cheeks were flushed. Holy shit, Race just kissed him.  _ Holy shit. _

“I’m goin’ go to sleep now,” The drunk boy muttered then he started snoring, right on cue. Spot groaned. He soon followed, falling into a drunken sleep.

The next morning, Race was gone. Left early for the walk to Manhattan. Spot understood. Race didn’t leave first, he just needed to go home. He shouldn’t have felt hurt….yet there he was heart aching.  _ It was just a kiss, get a grip, Conlon.  _ Spot reminded himself as he paid for his papes and head out to his selling point. 

Truth be told, Racetrack Higgins didn’t remember much of the previous night other than drinking his brains out, several bad hands of poker, and kissing the King of Brooklyn before passing out. Honestly, it scared the shit out of Race when the hangover haze left and he realized what he’d done. His throat started closing when he saw Spot walking down the street, heading towards Sheepshead. To him.  _ This is how I die, _ Race thought.  _ Death by kissing Spot Conlon.  _

“Hey,” said Spot. He looked rough but he always looked rough. It was his look, how Race always saw him. Bruises, some cuts here and there, bloody knuckles but there was a new list to the injuries. A swollen lip, not from being busted, but from lip locking with Racetrack Higgins. 

“H...Hey,” Race started by stuffing his hands in his pockets, forcing himself to walk towards the betting stalls. “Who d’ya want me to bet on?”

“I’m thinking of trying out Sprace, this time. Whattaya think?” 

Race shrugged. “It’s a pretty good horse, maybe it’ll win somethin’.” He wrote down their bets and they returned back to the stands, grippin the wood as the jockeys reared up to go. The gun was fired and the screaming started. Spot and Race joined in, yelling at Sprace to go faster or to hurry up and win already. The visit lacked the usual chit-chat about stuff, all kinds of stuff. Race, not wanting to get himself killed, stayed away from the subject of last night.

“Boys wanted me to ask if ya coming next Thursday.” Race nearly jumped when Spot started talking, 

“I’ll be there if you want me to be,” He muttered, gripping the railing tightly. He was treading on thin fucking ice.

“I do,” Spot answered and Race’s heart damn near stopped.  _ This man is going to be the death of me, _ both of them thought. They turned their focus back on the horses, screaming and hollering, cheering and stamping their feet. Being loud and annoying to sensible people. In the end, Sprace won first. Spot and Race jumped up and down, hugged each other, and went to collect their winnings. Together they sat under the bleachers, grinning like idiots as if the previous night hadn’t happened. 

Then like a light bulb blowing out, they remembered. They sat in silence, wanting to inch away but neither did. “Was it….was it a bad kiss?” Spot asked, putting his face in his hands, face bright red with embarrassment. Race inhaled too sharply, choking on his own saliva. He coughed, Spot pounding on his back. 

“No.” He breathed, “It wasn’t bad.” It was wonderful, he wanted to tell him. It was sensational, mind-blowing. That he wanted to do it again and again and again, never stopping except to breathe. But he didn’t say that. His cheeks were flushed but he didn’t hide them. “Tell me, Spot. Do you wanna kiss me again?” Jesus, Racetrack Higgins had a death wish and he knew it. 

Spot paused, an arm still around Race. He didn’t go to move it, Race didn’t mind. “What’re you goin’ do if I say yes?” Race looked him dead in the eyes with an expression that screamed, ‘Do you want to find out?’ “That was a stupid question,” He uttered. 

“Mhm.”  
“Hey!”

“Just answer the fucking question, Conlon.”

A breath. 

“Yes.”

Again, Race didn’t hesitate to lean forward to press their lips together and didn’t stop. They didn’t stop for a long time. Racetrack stayed at the Brooklyn lodge house again, this time there was no whiskey. No liquor. They didn’t do anything, just held each other tight. 

It was a common occurrence to find the two of them together. One was not without the other for too long. This changed with the coming of the strike. Race didn’t play messenger, didn’t dare face Spot Conlon. Spot wouldn’t be swayed by his and Race’s….friendship that included kissing and the occasional blowjob. Better send a stranger than….Race. He thought he knew Spot’s answer. Brooklyn would join Manhatten and the rest would follow. But he didn’t. Spot Conlon refused, the other boroughs didn’t want to risk it unless they were backed by Brooklyn. 

Spot wasn’t coming. It shook Race to the core but he knew that decision was final. Spot Conlon didn’t change his mind for no one. Race knew that the black eye, cuts, and busted lips weren’t going to sway the King of Brooklyn but he had to get something off his chest. He passed Sheepshead, making his way to the Brooklyn lodge house. 

The boys were playing poker at the little table. Race longed to sit down and play a hand of cards. He waved at them and they waved back. Race kept moving, heading upstairs to Spot’s room. His fingers clutched the remains of a smoked down cigar. It was crumbling ash, Spot would be furious but Race didn’t care. 

He opened the door without knocking. The bed was empty, Spot was out on his fire escape. He walked out to him, the crisp air nipping at his bruised face. Some blood leaked out of a cut as Spot turned to look at him. For a second, it was Spot’s calm face but it quickly changed to alarm. He gripped Race’s forearm. 

“What happened?? Who did this to you?!” He exclaimed.

Race glanced away, unable to look the King of Brooklyn in the eyes. “Bulls soaked us for strikin’.” He said flatly. Spot looked devastated, he opened his mouth to say something but Race continued. “Look, I know me askin’ for your help don’t hold no more weight than Jack askin’ because we’re….” He searched for the right word. Lovers? Friends with benefits??? Why were relationships so confusing?!! “Friends.”

“But we’re going to lose this war without you, Spot. And I’ve already decided that I’m going down with Manhattan. They're gonna drag me to the refuge or I’m gonna do somethin’ stupid and get myself killed. So I ain’t here to ask for anything.” Race took a big breath and looked Spot Conlon straight in the eye. “I’m here to say goodbye.” 

That last statement shook Spot Conlon straight to the core. It numbed him to the point that he said nothing as Race made his way out. It just left him thinking that maybe. Just maybe he’d been wrong. 

With his goodbyes in order, Race was ready for the next rally, the next time to get the absolute shit beaten out of him. Spilling his guts to Colan made him feel reckless, more than usual. Perhaps pissed off was half of the other feeling he felt when Brooklyn showed up mixed in with utter relief and…..some other unknown emotion. The King of Brooklyn had changed his mind and Race was sure it wasn’t because of him. He wasn’t  _ that _ selfish.

The strike broke with a groundbreaking deal. Don’t need to go into that. Race didn’t really listen to half of Jack’s speech, he’d hear about it later. All the newsies were gathered Medda’s theatre and someone had brought booze. That person was raised to the equivalent as a holy man. They’d be told by newsies for years to come. ‘The One Who Brought The Booze’, they’d say wistfully. 

Race on the other hand celebrated by actually smoking his cigar. He rarely enjoyed the taste of tobacco on his tongue, the curling smoke that lingers in the air. The cigars, despite his chewing, was something that he saved for special occasions. One such as winning a strike. That was pretty damn special. He barely noticed the door opening and who stepped out until they were in front of him. 

“You came,” Spot Conlon’s eyes swept over him, taking in all the bruises, the cuts, and the smoking cigar in his hand. A lump was forming in the King of Brooklyn’s throat, he supposed that was guilt but he swallowed it.

“Of course I came. You didn’t think I’d come for you?” 

“Well, I don’t know. For a while there I thought-” Race’s words got caught up in his choke as a wave of emotion smacked him heard in the face. It hurt worse than getting beaten up by the Bulls. He started blinking away tears, trying to keep them from falling as he recalled the utter hopelessness he felt when he heard Brooklyn wasn’t coming. When he’d said goodbye. 

“Race, I’m….I’m sorry I scared you. Honest, soon as you said goodbye…” He leaned up and took Race’s face in his hand, wiping away a stray tear. “Brooklyn was comin’ for ya.” Then he kissed him. Kept kissing him until all of Race’s tears were gone. Race dropped his cigar as they made their way inside, heading towards a prop room, Spot knew the way too. 

They crashed on a pink bed, Race was barely paying attention to anything as clothes came off and lips locked. Overshirts, undershirts were thrown off, suspenders snapped off, and pants were wiggled off. Spot’s hands stayed firmly on Race’s hips. The room was hot with desire and getting steamier by the minute. 

“Spot~” Race mumbled as the King of Brooklyn found his neck. He started kissing, licking, even biting. It made Race’s knees weak. All of it will bruise, especially the small bite marks that he leaves behind. Race’s fingers dug into Spot’s shoulder, holding him close.

“I don’t have what I need,” Spot muttered in his ear, pausing only for a second. 

“Mmm, don’t care~” Race purred right back. “We kept ourselves entertain before, didn’t we?”

“Mhmm,” Spot kissed Race and they held each other all night. The bed creaked but it didn’t break. After all, they might need it later. The foundation was set that night, with lots of kisses and moans that they were definitely...friends. Friends with  _ many, many _ benefits. Although if they were going to develop into something more permanent...both of them hoped so. Both of them hoped so as they held onto each other.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I was going to write some smut. Yeah. Me too.  
> FYI, two scenes were taken from comics created by Crystalizedtwilight on Tumblr. This is a link to her blog, http://crystallizedtwilight.tumblr.com/ and the two comics. 
> 
> http://crystallizedtwilight.tumblr.com/post/172750643198/this-takes-place-after-king-of-new-york-and
> 
> and 
> 
> http://crystallizedtwilight.tumblr.com/post/180728599108/the-first-and-only-time-spot-saw-race-cry-a


	6. Ice Cream, Blushing, And The Occasional Smack-down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some cute Blush after a shitload of Sprace. A cute date and Kid Blink is a little ball of rage.

Kid Blink and Mush had a system. At least once or twice a month, both of them bought twice the normal amount of papes, sold em, and played hookey the next day. They'd spend the day going on a date. It normally wasn't anything _too_  out of the ordinary. A walk around the docks, some time spent in Central Park, even sandwichs at Jacobi's restaurant. Nothing too fancy or expensive but Mush had something special in mind. He kept it a secret from Blink, even smirking whenever Blink asked what on earth was he scheming. Blink just hoped it wouldn't get them in too much trouble. 

About a week after the lodge house burned down, Mush suggested that they went out for a date. Kid Blink stared at him. "Mush, we gotta be careful -" Then Mush took a hold of his and Blink's voice vanished. 

"We deserve something nice, don't we Blink?" Mush's thumb caressed Blink's knuckles, nice and gentle. Even if Blink wanted to protest, how could he say _no_ to Mush? He gave in and they bought twice as many papes. After a hard day of selling twice as many papes, they both hit the tub and scrubbed themselves cleaned. Their clothes got a wash too, the Nuns nice enough to run them through a drying rack and laying them out by the fire so they'd be nice and dry by morning. 

"It's so good to have company!!" Elmer always beamed whenever he saw Blink and Mush, along with the other newsies that accepted the Nuns offer. Living in the nunnery was okay. Food was decent and while the beds squeaked, they were used to it. The next morning, they went through the motions of the last week. Get up wicked ass early for prayers, do prayers, do some chores then some breakfast then some more chores. Eventually, the pair was able to slip away through a window. 

"You're goin' to have to catch me," Blink leaned out over the window ledge, both legs already swung over, balancing perfectly on the little ledge. Mush smiled up at him and opened his arms. A breath later, Blink free fell in his arms, perfectly. 

"Hey," Mush said. Blink's cheeks reddened and stayed like that even when Mush set him down. Mush took his hand and started leading him in the city, making him close his eyes as they got closer to their destination. Not like that was very hard since Blink blind eye was already covered. "You're gunna like this a lot, promise." Mush's hand rest on the lower of Blink's back.

"Promise?" 

"Promise. Now open your eyes." His eyes opened to see...an ice cream parlor! He gasped with glee and turned to look at his lover. 

"Mush! You shouldn't hav-"

"Shhhhh, come on!" He led them in. They ordered their sundaes at random, not reading the board or wasting time on it. Together, they sat at a table and chit chatted until the ice cream time. Immediately, both of them dug in. 

"Oh, you gotta try this." Blink got a little bit of his ice cream on his spoon and waved it in front of Mush. "Open your mouth, now," 

"Okay, okay." Mush took the offered ice cream and popped it in his mouth. "Mmmm...what, strawberry?" He guessed. 

"Tastes like it!" Blink cheered. In exchange, Mush gave him a little taste of his own. It was minty, fresh in his mouth. Eventually, they just dug into each others ice cream or fedding one by the others spoon. Their faces were always flushed. Ah. Young love. 

They left after both of their dishes were empty, paying before they left. They walked down the streets, Mush's arm was casually around Blink's shoulder. _Casually._ Anyone looking wouldn't suspect a thing. Blink liked it that way. It was safer this way even though it made his chest ache with sadness that they couldn't love freely. 

Everything was going perfect, even when they dared to kiss in the alleyway. Looking back on that, it probably wasn't the best idea but they hadn't care. Too caught up in love to care. But of course, someone had to ruin it. Blame the author. 

"Well, well. No wonder I didn't see ya this mornin'." came a voice from the entrance of the alleyway. Unlike the pervious chapter, twas not Spot Conlon, the king of Brooklyn and hella gay, but instead was Oscar Delancey, an utter asshole. Kid Blink pushed himself away from Mush who stiffened. 

"Shouldn't ya be working, Delancey?" Mush tried to be civil. Mush was always civil, Blink admired that because Blink was a little ball of rage and Mush was soft. Even when they were fighting the Bulls, Blink fought with everything while Mush pulled his punches. 

"I got off an hour 'go. Ya two didn't even show up. What, on a date or something?" Delancey sneered. It made Blink's vision go red but Mush found his shoulder and held on. 

"It's none of your fuckin' business!" He tried not to shout but it failed, his mouth twisted in a snarl. Fist clenched and ready to rage. Already raging. 

"So what?" Delancey shrugged. "It'dda be easy to tell the Bulls that I found two queers and exactly where to find 'em." Mush froze, eyes as wide as a deer in headlights. "Just thinkin' of the trial! My, my, thatta be fu-" Delancey never got to finish his statement because Kid Blink found a bottle and slammed it over his head. The older boy crumbled and Blink didn't hesitate to kick the hell out of him while he was down. Even with his shitty depth perception. 

"Don't! You! Fucking! Dare!" Blink screamed in all of his fury. He kept kickin' and kickin' until Mush grabbed him and pulled away. An inhumane sound left Blink's lips but Mush pulled him out of the alley and forced him to keep walking.

The arm around the shoulder was a little tighter than before. "Don't worry about 'im, he won't probably remember anythin'." He muttered in his ear, soothing out his ruffled feathers. "You really showed him!" Mush announced, grinning ear to ear. "Don't worry, Delancey's too stupid to do anythin' like that." 

Blink took a breathe, the red fading from his vision. "Right...right. Dont' let 'im ruin our day....hey, we got some extra money! Wanna see a picture?" 

"Sure, maybe if we're lucky, we'll getta double deal!" Mush planted a quick kiss on Kid Blink's cheek. Cheeks red, filled with love instead of rage, they headed towards the pictures and had a gay time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally had to look up the history of ice cream for this. And laundry history. And make sure that movies were a thing. That's dedication, folks. 
> 
> Next chapter will probably address more of Sprace's current relationship. Maybe they'll go on a date or have intimate sex. Whatever they do, that is a problem for future me.


	7. Peonies and Forget Me Nots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot and Race work out their relationship. Not by much but its a start.

For two weeks, Spot and Race created a routine. They went through the motions of it every day. In the morning, Race untangled himself from Spot’s grip, head to Manhattan, get his papes, and walk to Sheepshead. Around three, Spot visited for some betting and chit-chat.  He’d leave around four and came back for Race soon as he finished selling. Then they’d grabbed some grub at the lodge house, play a little bit of poker, and finally collapse in their bed. Then rinse and repeat.

After the first week, Race was starting to worry that he was losing his Manhattan edge. That spending all this time in Brooklyn would finally make the Manhattan newsies realize that Race deserved to stay there and wouldn’t let him back. One day, he even showed up wearing _red_. Spot’s color, Brooklyn’s color. But for all his worrying, one of Spot’s newsies laughed at him.

“Seriously? That’s what ya’re worryin’ about?” She grinned, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Ya got _no home_ in Manhattan but _that’s_ what ya worryin’ about becomin’ Brooklyn.”

“Shut up, Warrior.” Race muttered under his breath, cheeks red. Thankfully, Spot came downstairs and she started berating him for something. Warrior was an interesting Newsies. She wasn't scared of the King of Brooklyn, going as far to argue with him or poke at his decisions.  If Race didn’t see her kissing another girl the other day, he’d thought she was in love with Spot like some anime tsundere. But it’s not like Race cared if she did or didn’t! Baka…

In bed, Race and Spot’s relationship wasn’t affected by what happened at the strike party. Both of them accounted for what happened on some light alcohol consumption and the high feeling that the strike left them with. There was still the occasional kiss, the occasion touching of each other but nothing more. Nothing like that night. At least that’s what they were telling themselves.

Race stared at the ceiling, his eyes narrowed at chipped paint and cracks slowly unraveling in corners. They normally fell asleep like this, back to back, only to wake up entangled like lovers. Some nights Race woke from nightmares of the strike or even that fire, shivering and shaking, only for Spot to pull him close. Those nights, Race rested his head in the crook of Spot’s neck. In the morning, he didn’t want to rise.

One morning, Race woke to Spot already being awake, hours before either of them had to. “Hey…”

“Hey.” said the King of Brooklyn, his eyes slightly glazed over.

“What’s wrong?” Race sat up, untangling himself slightly not all the way. He narrowed his eyes at the alarm clock on the nightstand. According to the hands, it was fifteen minutes to midnight. “Spot, what the hell, we got like...six more hours.”

“I’m just thinkin’.” was the only answer Spot gave him. Race shifted slightly, trying to get himself comfortable.

“About what?” He prodded, feeling nosy as ever.

Spot’s eyes flickered from the wall to Race, their eyes meeting for a brief second before they both looked away. “About us.” His cheeks reddened in the dark but neither could see the others blush so that was one thing.

Race cleared his throat. “Whattya about us?” He said ‘us’ carefully as if any minute Spot Conlon was going to decide ‘nope’ and take back the word. Go back to before the strike, waaay back to before that drunken kiss. _Like that’s an option at this point,_ Race thought. It’d been over _four fucking years_ since that first kiss and Race didn't regret it for anything. Except for the hell of a hangover. Yeah, that was pretty awful.

“I don’t know, Racer, just….this.” He gestured to their shared bed. Race blinked for a second. Oh, shit, he just referred to Spot’s bed as theirs. That wasn’t good. “Don’t ya want...more?”

Race’s breath caught in his throat and he forced himself to breathe, to joke. “Ya sure, you didn’t drink some of Hot Spot’s whiskey, Spotty?”

Even in the dark, Race could see the flash of Spot’s teeth as he gritted them. “Just answer the question, Racer.” Race swallowed hard.

“Yeah. I want more,” He whispered to Spot, to the world. His chest started hurting less, a pain that he didn't notice until it was gone. Both of their cheeks were red, their hearts hammering so hard that Spot and Race swore the other could hear it. Which is impossible unless you’re that guy from _The Tell-Tale Heart_ by Edgar Allan Poe and he was fucking _nuts_. If you start hearing heartbeats out of nowhere, go to your doctor.

Spot cleared his throat and laid back down. “C’mere, Racer,” He opened his arms, letting Race settle in them, and pulled him close. “This okay?” He muttered in his ear.

“It’s fine, we always end up like ‘is.” Race told him, his head in the crook of the King of Brooklyn’s neck.

“Good,” Spot breathed, shutting his eyes and letting sleep take him, holding Race close to him. Race soon followed, dreams being nothing of fires or the slugs of the Bulls.

When Spot got up, Race was gone but a side of his cheek was slightly wet. It took Spot a couple of minutes to figure out why as he dressed. _Oh! He kissed my cheek. Fucking hell, that took way too long to figure that out._ Spot shook his head as he attaches his suspenders and tightened them.

When he saw Race, He was determined to return the gesture. He waited until the crowd was cheering when everyone was distracted by the horses to plant a kiss of his own, right on Race’s cheek. Then he whistled loudly for the horses to run, a smile on his lips.

Race covered his lips, along with his kissed cheek to cover his blush. _Fuck, fuck, I am way to far gone._ He thought, his heart racing, his face tingling. He turned his focus to the horses, cheering for his chosen favorite even when it lost. “C’mon, let's go home.” Spot stuffed his hands in his pockets. Back through the usual motions except for a change. Now they slept entangled right away. No more sleeping back to back anymore. Of course, Race was the little spoon because that makes sense somehow, even though he’s the taller one but screw it.

Not only did this change but some other things did. They didn’t get out on dates like Blink and Mush did, not yet anyway, but there were gestures. Kisses on the cheek, buying each other small gifts like apples or a pastry, Race wrapped up flowers in papes and handed it to Spot once. “What are these?” the King of Brooklyn asked, desperately trying to salvage his street rep but utterly failing because this gesture was _so cute_ and _personal_.

“There for ya. Whattya don’t like ‘em?” Race had tilted his head and pouted his lips slightly, looking sadden for a second. The man that gave Finch and so many other newsies the jitters just fucking melted.

He took them gently. “Course I like ‘em. I love ‘em.” Even though the word didn’t indicate always homosexuality back in those days but apparently occasionally it did mean _the gay_ in the late 19th century, he was gay. So, so gay. Gay for Race’s smile. Gay for the flowers. God, his street rep was going to be nothing but rags by the time Race was done with him. _Hopefully, that’s never. Life without Racer just ain’t worth it._ Spot thought.

The next time, Spot brought the flowers. A boutique of nice forget-me-nots to compliment the red peonies that Race got him wrapped up in some extra papes. “Aww, Spotty,” Race accepted them right away with the biggest smile Spot ever saw. “You shouldn’t have.” He took a sniff, his smile widening.

“Anything for you, Racer,” He said as the crowd cheered, a perfectly timed moment. If you weren't’ standing right next to them,  there was no way to hear, perfectly disguised. Race flushed and beamed, tugging him out of Sheepshead.

“Let’s go somewhere!” He exclaimed.

“Like...on a date?” Spot proposed quietly, tilting his own head.

“Yeah, I’mma pretty sure that’s like the definition. I mean, ya already check one box. Gift, check!” Race grinned as they walked without a destination. They went around, having balls and balls of fun and laughing. “Hey, c’mere!” Race tugged Spot in an alleyway and kissed him. It was wonderful, full of laughter and...love. Spot was pretty sure it was love but he wasn’t sure.

“What was that for?” He asked when they broke apart.

“Just felt like it.” They walked home together, having eaten on the way, and crashed in their bed. “Tonight was wonderful,”

“Yeah, it was.” Spot smiled. He actually smiled. Didn't scowl, didn’t growl. Smiled.

Ahhh. Young gays in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised! This chapter was of Sprace. Getting their shit together. A little bit.


	8. We're going to Hell for this but that's okay. You'll be with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I typically get a couple of school-hours to plan this. I literally have a notebook that is filled to the brim with ideas and concepts of the last seven chapters of Burning Heart. When class is boring, so every five seconds, I write down a little idea of what I'll write about and during my study halls, I write the idea and develop it etc. Today I didn't get to do this. Soooo...this is mostly by the seat of my pants. With a lot of exhaustion.

Davey Jacobs was a good Jewish boy. Except good Jewish boys didn't stay up at odd hours and kiss other boys. Good Jewish boys didn't steal their friend's boyfriend. Then again, maybe Davey Jacobs wasn't a good Jewish boy. Because he did those things. The first one more than the latter. Davey figured out that he liked boys pretty quick. He had mountains and mountains of crushes on boys that he saw on the streets or at school but they were just crushes. He figured that he'd be fine. Repress the crushes, marry a good Jewish girl, and support his family. Or, Or. He could stay a bachelor. His mother had a brother that never married. He could do that, live to be an old man, alone. Either way, he was fucked. 

He was doing just fine. Then Dad broke his leg, then he and Les joined the workforce as Newsboys. Then he met Jack Kelly. _oh. I am dead._  Davey thought mere minutes before Jack started chatting Les up. Minutes before he bought him sixty papes. Davey knew he was too far gone when Jack poked him in the chest. The next thing he knew, Jack and Davey were organizing a strike. Next thing you know, _they won the strike._  Davey spent most of that party in shock, slowly a glass of alcohol that made his throat burn. Half of the shock was for actually winning, the second half was how utterly in _love_ he was with Jack Kelly. 

"Dave!" A very drunk Jack leaned against the corner where Davey sought refuge. Davey set his glass on the table and Jack stole it, drinking it down in one gulp. 

"Hey! Shouldn't you be with Katherine?" Davey asked. 

"Ahhh, she left early," No doubt Pulitzer was watching his daughter like a hawk, now that she was dating infamous Jack Kelly. "Whatta 'bout ya, Dave? Shouldn't ya be home?" 

"No, I'm celebrating." And he'd already walked Les home before returning to the party. Certain newsies were nowhere to be seen. Kid Blink and Mush disappeared together. Race went out to smoke his cigar and suddenly, Spot Conlon was gone. More and more of the Newsies were pairing off to rooms. Davey had been quick to realize that most of the Newsies were like him. Either queer in some shape or form. It made him feel less alone. 

"Hey, Hey, Davey." Davey glanced over, only half interested, to jolt back when Jack kissed him. For a minute, he dared to kiss the very-drunk-Jack back before pushing him back. "Whatya pull away for?" Jack asked, his mouth pouting. 

Davey's cheeks flushed, bright red. My first kiss is with a drunk man! He thought. "Jack, you're dating Katherine. Plus..." He hated himself for saying this, "boys aren't supposed to kiss other boys."

Jack laughed at Davey's last statement, leading him to frown. "I don't care. I'mma half queer, anyway." 

"Excuse me?" Davey asked, blinking. 

"I like both." Jack shrugged, sinking slightly in his chair. "Always 'ave."

A spark of hope fluttered in Davey's chest. Then he promptly squashed it. _He's dating Katherine, idiot!!!_  He thought to himself. "Despite that...you're still dating Katherine." Davey reminded him. _It was probably just because he's drunk that he was being all kissy on you,_ Davey thought to himself. 

Davey left soon after and spent the entire night, tossing and turning because of *The Kiss*. The next weeks, he forced himself to be happy for the pair or focus on his attention on working. Working and taking care of his family. That's what he was here for, not to make friends or fall in love. Then one day, Jack showed up at Davey's selling spot, with red eyes. "What happened to you?" Davey frowned, Jack's sack was still filled. Plus, his own selling spot was three blocks away from Davey's. 

"Nothin', whattya make ya think that?" Jack muttered. 

"Have you been crying?" prodded Davey, staring in Jack's deep brown eyes. For that reason, only!! 

"No," Jack lied. It was obvious he was lying and Davey gave him _the_  look. "'eah," He admitted, looking away. 

Davey stuffed the pape in his hand back in the bag. This needed his full concentration. "About what?" 

Jack took a deep breath and admitted it. "Me and Katherine broke up." 

"What?!!" Davey exclaimed. Everything seemed to be going so...well. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He'd seen the two of them fight like cats and dogs. Personally, he'd never thought it would last long but Davey accounted that for his crush on Jack.

"'eah. Apparently...." He lowered his voice. "Kath just figured she was queer." Davey felt his jaw slack.

"Really?"

"Mhhmmm. Walked in on Warrior givin' her a kiss. Not mad. Warrior turned a lotta girls queer." said Jack, rolling his right shoulder. 

"Isn't....Warrior a Brooklyn girl?"

"Katherine lives in Brooklyn."

"Right..."

And that was the end of Katherine and Jack's relationship. Jack sulked for a few weeks before bouncing back. They were still friends, him and Kath. That was all that mattered to him. Meanwhile, Davey shamed himself for the hope bouncing around in his chest. His second kiss wasn't until once again, they were both drunk. Here's the thing about Davey Jacobs, when he drinks, his mouth unspools. He'll say whatever is on his mind and regret it all later.

So he was at his house, relaxing while his parents were gone. Les was over at a friends. Jack was over, they'd broken in the family's liqour cabinet and started drinking, talking, telling stories. It was after the sun had set when Davey was staring at Jack's face, in drunken awe. "I like you." He told Jack, very, very drunk.

"Mhmmm?" Jack set down the bottle. "What was that, Dave?"

"I like you, Jackie." _Oh, Jesus Christ, I should stop,_ Davey thought but he kept going. "I like your hair, I like your lips, I wanna kiss you all the damn time, and I can't. I can't stop thinking about it." He confessed, staring at Jack's lips. 

"Is that so?" Jack tilted his head. "Ya wanna kisss me, Davey?" 

"I just confessed that, didn't I." 

"Mhmm." And Jack kissed him. Davey kissed him back, kept kissing him, over and over, again. They crashed on that bed, lips locking, wiggling out of their clothes. "Davey~" Jack murmered in his ear, it set Davey's teeth on edge. 

"Davey, I don't have-" Jack started when they'd broken apart, half naked.

"Shut up." Davey muttered and went to grap some oil out of the living room. There was so much oil in the house. To cook, to light candles, just for the scent and the hell of it."Don't you dare, stop." He warned Jack. They held eachother all night, not being quiet for one minute. 

The next morning, Davey woke with a hell of a headache. It was the first thing he focused on, teh first thing he noticed. The second was Jack Kelly's arm around his waist. "Oh- Oh - Oh fuck!" Davey nearly screamed and started wiggling, moving to get out of Jack's grip. Why did he always fuck things up? Jack would wake up, see what they did, and hate him. Fuck, fuck, fucked, fuck!!!!!!

All the moving immedieatly woke up Jack who blinked the sleep out of his eyes. "Davey?" he blinked, confused on why Davey was moving so much, why he wanted to leave. 

"Jack! Shit, fuck, I'm sorry - I shouldn't have - we, we were drunk and and -" He was shushed by a kiss, Jack pulling him close. Davey collapsed in the kiss, his anxiety slipping away as quickly as it came. Jack pulled away. "Davey, I love ya." 

"We could go to Hell, for this, Jack." Davey muttered, his cheeks flushed. 

"I don't care. You'll be there too." said Jack, holding him close. Davey took a breathe and looked at Jack's eyes.

He said slyly, "My parents aren't coming back until Monday." Meaning they had the weekend. Alone. Jack's mouth turned into a smile and he kissed him again. They didn't leave the bed all day, holding eachother close. 

Sure, Davey and Jack were going to hell but they'd be together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this by like the skin of my teeth.


	9. I Went On A Date With Spot Conlon And Lived.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot and Race go on an actual date. Yeah. An ACTUAL DATE.

Race took a hint from Kid Blink. He'd seen him and Mush's little dates and how much fun they had and bonded and all the lovey-dovey shit. Maybe it was the most recent sighting of them enjoying themselves at an ice cream parlor, or that Blink punched the absolute shit out of Oscar Delancey but suddenly, he wanted that. Race wanted to tour around the city with Spot on his arm and maybe, just maybe, beat the shit out of someone being homophobic. Race could see it now. Peonies and Forget-Me-Nots scattered on an alley floor with bruised knuckles and blood covering his teeth. Sounded like heaven.

He waited until they both were curled up in bed, not at Sheepshead. Yeah, their relationship had already developed way too much around that place. "Spot?" He said softly, slowly rousing the falling asleep King of Brooklyn.

"What, Racer?" Spot mumbled, his eyes still shut.

"I want to go on a date." That woke him up, making him sit up, blink at Race with his dark eyes.

"Why?"

"That's more, isn't it?" Race tilted his head lightly, his golden curls falling to the side. "It won't be much, we can just wander the city and talk." Maybe even kiss a couple times in an alleyway, that part was left unspoken because it was so obvious. Of course, they'd kiss in an alleyway. Who didn't?

"Yeah....where'd we even go?" Spot rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to wake up so he could focus on this. A date, Racer wanted to go on a date. That was...unexpected, he guessed. "Sheepshead?"

Race rolled his blue eyes. "We go there ever' day." No way in hell were they going to Sheepshead! As much as Racetrack loved the races, he needed to go somewhere different for his first date with the King of Brooklyn! "We can wander in Brooklyn and Manhatten. That's fair?"

"Do we have to go to Manhatten?"

"Yes."

"Fiiiine." Then Spot pulled him closer. "Gotta buy more papes 'morrow." He murmured in Race's neck, taking to being the little spoon this day. And he was right. Both of them bought more the next day, worked hard and sold everything, then like Blush did, got all cleaned up. Only together.

"Water's always cold?"

"Always."

"After you, then, Spotty,"

"No way in hell, Racer." In the end, Spot pushed Race in the tub of freezing cold water and Race pulled him in with him. "Shit!" Spot cursed however once the cold set in their bones, they were fine. They started washing up, handing the soap to one another when the other required it.

"Fuck, now I'm used to it." Race sunk deep in the tub, glaring at the far away sink. Once they got out, they'd be freezing until their bodies warmed up. "After you, Spotty."

"Fuck that."

"Well. Now we're in a dilemma." In the end, Spot got out first and dragged Race with him. Together, they sat shivering by a stove in towels. "This fucking sucks," Racetrack muttered under his breath as his body shook. Soon enough though, they warmed and climbed back in bed. After putting on their drawers, of course. Or maybe they slept naked! Who knows. What we do know is that the next morning, they got dressed, ready for their date.

"Where do you want to go first," Spot asked him.

"Whatta 'bout that bakery you got me that danish from?" Spot agreed and they headed there. Since they were clean, they were allowed to sit at a small table in the bakery, enjoy their danishes, and talk without getting bad looks.

"What do we durin' these....dates." Spot asked.

Race chewed a bit of his pastry then answered. "Talk, I guess."

"Talk?" the King of Brooklyn asked, a bit hesitant.

"Yeah."

"Alright....um. My real name is Sean."

Race blinked, furrowing his brows. "Isn't that....ain't that an Irish name?"

"Whatta 'bout it?" Spot crossed his arms and leaned back.

"I thought ya were Italian."

"I am," Spot answered, looking as if he encountered this confusion every time he revealed his true name.

"My name is Anthony."

"And ya had issues with my name? That's dead on Italian!" Racetrack huffed. Yeah, I should have expected this. He thought.

"We're opposites," Race shrugged. They ate their danishes in silence and left name questions to the bakery. Still, family questions kept lurking about in both of their minds. Pasts were an annoying thing.

They passed the Manhatten lodge house, still in construction for the next month or so when Spot spoke first. "Mah parents immigrated when I was three." His fingers tapped against his arms, slightly uncomfortable but it needed to be said.

"What happened to 'em?"

"Ma was sick. She got sent back to th' old country. Da died when I was six from consumption." Truth be told, Spot didn't remember much of the voyage or of the old country. Lots of sun, hard times, and weeping family members. At the time, he didn't understand why they were leaving or where were they going. He hated the ship, wanting to get off it the very second they left. Then Ma was gone. Another moment he didn't understand. His early childhood was pretty confusing. He wanted to say all of it, explain some of it, but he waited for Race to trade a truth for a truth. It only seemed fair.

"Mine was already here. Arrived in '52 and had a whole litter of us kids. I was one of the youngest...and I left. When I was eight. It was either stay, work in a factory or...be this." He gestured back to lodge house in the distance. It hadn't been a hard decision on his part. He'd been quick to see the effects on his older sibs, the injuries, and the sickness. That life just wasn't for Anthony Higgins. Never was, never will be.

"Joined the newsies after Da died. You?"

"Joined soon as I left." They shared a half smile. The other newsies took care of them, damn near raised each other, and did a damn job seeing how both Spot and Race weren't dead yet. "How d'ya become King of Brooklyn?"

"Worked my way up to it. Just started taking care of my boys then it grew and grew...and just happened." Honestly, Spot was very confused when he was first told of the title. /King of Brooklyn...that sounds fucking stupid/, He'd thought at first but it grew on him. As did his reputation.

"Sounds about right," Race admitted as they crossed back into familiar territory. They were near Medda's theatre. "Hey, wait right here!" Race ran into a shop and bought something, quickly coming out with bright red peonies.

"Again, Racer?" Spot took them with a bright blush.

"Hey, the old ones are gettin' wilted!" Race protested with a big smile.

"True...true." Spot amended as they continued to walk. "Hey, wanna catch a show?"

"At Meddas?"

"Yeah."

Race grabbed his hand, his eyes bright. "Yeah!!!" There was no doubt that Racer didn't forget that bed in the prop room but they went and watched a couple shows. While he watched, Spot decided that this was going to be their things. And that he liked these...dates. Especially when they made Race smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just got back from a Hanukkah party. I ate a lot of food, listened to the story of Hanukkah, light the Menorah, and ate like 10 stars of David cookies. I smell like garlic and oil. The next chapter may or may not be about Hanukkah in the Jacobs home.  
> Either way, happy Hanukkah!!!


	10. Never Teach Newsies How To Play Driedal. N E V E R.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jacobs throw their annual Hanukkah party. The newsies help out. Davey makes the mistake of introducing them to a small gambling game called Dreidel. Davey, you're supposed to be better than this.

The time of Hanukkah came to the Jacobs house. A week before Davey explained to the Newsies the holiday, giving them time to get gifts. He’d explained how they light the Menorah every night, one more candle at the time, taking turns who got to handle the candles. On the first day, his father did it, the second day, his parents and so forth and so forth until it reached the eight day. "It's when we have our party. My family does anyway. Invite some Newsies.” Davey told Jack.

By this point, most of the newsies helped around the house, prep work for the party. Albert and Finch aided Mrs. Jacobs in the kitchen, always smelling of oil, garlic, and rosemary. Jack painted Hebrew letters on dreidels, with Davey’s help. Although one was much better looking than the other. Crutchie helped where he could but without his crutch, it was harder to move around.

“Alright, alright, calm down! Racer, Jesus, put down that cookie.” Jack told Race, who came by with Spot Conlon, joining the growing party. Plenty more were coming when the selling hours were done and they’d clean up a bit, along with all the friends of Davey’s parents. The little star of David cookies was adorable, made of gingerbread, and decorated with sugar. “Come on, save some for later!” Jojo and Romeo raced in and out of the kitchen, setting food down on the dining room table before rushing back in the kitchen to carry something else out.

Spot fidget a little as if wanting to help a bit. “Can’t we...uh, help with anythin’?” He asked Jack, who was officially in charge as Davey and Mr. Jacobs were out getting another batch of oil for latkes.

“No, Spotty.” He told the King of Brooklyn firmly who continued to fidget, keeping close to Racer sneaked another cookie in his mouth. “Dammit, Racer,” Jack moved the cookies into a more clustered spot, making it harder to reach.

Race pouted. “Aww, ya no fun, Jackie.”

“Hey. Only Davey gets to call me that.”

“Jackie?”

“Stop.” Race grinned as he gained another round of ammunition in his belt but he kept his mouth shut. His eyes sparkled when he was the gelt coins, held in little dishes.

“Heyy….what are these for?” He took a handful as if testing the weight to see if they were real gold. The weight wasn’t right, a frown formed on Racer’s lips as if he was disappointed.   

“It’s for dreidel.”

“Which is?”

“Just a little gambling ga-” Jack started before he realized his mistake. Gambling….and Race. _Awww, shit._ Jack thought as he saw Race’s eyes widen and his grin returned.

“How d’ya play?” he asked. Jack sighed, sat at a table and grabbed a dreidel. Race plopped down next to him, Spot following as they all sat on the floor, knees against the hardwood floor.

“All right. See these symbols on the side, ‘ere?” Spot and Race nodded. “They mean somethin’. See that word above ‘em? It’s what the letter is. See this one? Nun? Means ya do nothin’.” He pointed the rest of the symbols and explained their meanings in the game. He also grabbed about ten gelt out of the dish. “First though, ya gotta get yours some coins. Take about like...ten.” Race picked up twenty, gave ten to Conlon, then sat his gelt down in front of him with a sort of pride.

Davey spent most of the first day of Hanukkah explaining the rules of Dreidel to the boys before realizing what a mistake that was. The boys who played cards and poker in their free time quickly took up the little gambling game and played with hard determination. “Guys, guys! It’s just a game,” Davey watched with his brows creased, watching the boys play.

“Who asked you?!?!?!?” Davey threw his hands up and joined the game, telling what the letters were if they’d forgotten and acted as referee. When Jack painted his dreidel, he painted the names of the letters above them, ensuring no confusion.

“Put some gelt in the pot,” Three coins entered the pot and Jack picked up his dreidel, balancing it on the point. “And ya just…” he spun it, watching it whirl and move, “Give it a spin.” Race watched with eager eyes, picking up the game quickly, as did Spot. Davey and Mr. Jacobs came home to a very intense dreidel game that included more than fifteen newsies, with cheering and some shouting. Truly, Mrs.Jacobs didn’t give a shit as she and her helpers labored in the kitchen.

“What’s going on in here???” cried Davey, utterly confused and still very much regretting ever teaching the newsies dreidel. His father, not wanting to deal with the mess of boys and gambling, took the oil from Davey and disappeared in the kitchen. The game ceased as the equivalent of the mother of them walked in.

“We’re just...playing some dreidel, Dave,” Then Jack gave his lover his best smile and Davey just. Melted.

“Without me?” He sat next to Jack, Race moving to make room to him, almost on Spot Conlon’s lap. Jack struggled for an answer as Davey took his gelt and threw some in the pot. “Come on, why did we stop?” Davey rolled his eyes and the game started back up again. It was loud but none of the Jacobs reprimanded them as more people filed in, a mix of Newsies and other friends invited. The game was abandoned in the favor of food but quickly returned to. Jojo, Romeo, Finch, and Albert joined although Finch for the most part just leaned against Albert, his eyes half closed against, leaning heavily his boyfriend's chest.

They played until sunset, the winner being none other than Racetrack Higgins who hoarded his winnings until Spot Conlon poked him in the side and forced him to share the chocolate coins. That was around the time when Mr.Jacobs came out of the kitchen and announced that now, they’d tell the story of Hanukkah and light the Menorah.

The newsboys quieted and listened. Of the beginning, of how the Jewish people loved Alexander the Great so, how the terrible dictator came to be, along with the revolution. The newsies, with no religious education or simply, didn’t care listened, with intent. “And now, we light the Menorah.” Slowly, Jacobs family stood up and lit for candles, Les was aided by Davey. Then the six newsies living with the Jacobs light the Menorah as the blessings were sung. After that, the party started back up while the Menorah burned.

People started departing slowly, Spot and Race were the last few to leave. Davey and Jack were still playing dreidel, Jack determined to win. Crutchie was snoring away on the couch, Romeo and Jojo were scrubbing away at dishes while Albert and Finch relaxed on the floor, almost cuddling. Gifts were exchanged days before with Davey acquired several books, one being of Jewish love poems from *cough* *cough* Jack *cough* *cough* while Jack got paints. Crutchie got a new crutch.

“This was nice,” Davey said as he spun the dreidel, watching it spin.

“Mhm.”

“Hey, Jackie.”

“What, Dave?”

“C’mere,” And Davey kissed him, nice and slow. Jack kissed him back, eyes closed. Then Davey pulled away. “Hey! Look! Gimmel!!”  
“Whhhaaat??? Noooooo!” Jack protested as Davey claimed all the gelt with the biggest smile he’d ever seen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the last day of Hanukkah and it's the tenth chapter. That's ironic. 
> 
> Anyway...I've already written the epilogue for this baby. Just need to write chapter 11. I might this all in one day then wow. Burning Hearts will be over. Depends on my mood.


	11. Closing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! Curtain call! Get out there and take your bows!! Albert!! Finch!!! Stop kissing!! DAVEY JACOBS, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE BETTER THAN THIS.

The Manhattan Lodge house was finished in its construction. All there was left to do was fill it with furniture and boys. A week after Christmas, approaching the new year, the word whispered from newsie to newsie. Some were relieved, like Mush and Kid Blink. They couldn’t wait to go back to living in the lodge house, unburdened by the rigorous prayer and chores dealt out by the nuns. Crutchie and Jack missed their penthouse under the stars. Others were saddened, Albert and Finch hadn’t minded living with the Jacobs even liking the taste of kosher. And the lone party of Racetrack Higgins was unsure what to do. 

That night, Spot found Race hanging out on the roof, wrapped up in a couple of blankets and staring at the stars. “Hey,” He said, sitting next to him. 

“Hey,” breathed Race, his breath fogged in front of him. Spot watched his….lover. Yeah, that was the word. They loved each other even though they hadn’t said the right words yet. Spot knew that he loved Racer more than anyone else. 

“Did….did ya hear ‘bout the lodge house?” Spot asked carefully. Truthfully even Spot didn’t know what Race would do. If he wanted to go back to Manhattan, Spot wouldn’t stop him but what if Racer decided to leave their….relationship behind in Brooklyn. The awful tug of doubt and fear lurked in the King of Brooklyn’s stomach, no reassurance made it go away. 

“Yeah,” was all Race said, continuing to stare at the snow, the stars. Spot resisted the urge to throw his hands up and sigh, keeping it all calm. 

“And?” 

“And what?”

“And are ya goin’ to move back?”

This time it was Race’s turn to look at Spot with frustration. “Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I?” 

Spot turned slightly and mumbled something to the night sky, the stars, and the snow.

“What was that?” Race asked, turning to look at Spot. 

“I said,” Spot started and blurted the rest out before he lost his nerve, “I said, you could stay here!”

Race’s mouth shaped in a little o. “I’m from Manhattan, Spot, I belong there.”

“Ya don’t have to.”

“Spotty,” Race shifted closer to the King of Brooklyn, wrapping one of his blankets around his shoulder. “Are ya scared that I’mma gunna leave you?” 

“Ya are leavin’ me.” 

Race huffed. “I’ll be at Sheepshead ever’ day. I ain’t leave ya.” 

The doubt in Spot’s stomach was still tight but Race’s words were helping. Slowly. “Are ya ever goin’ stay here?”

“Ya mean in Brooklyn?”

“No, I mean in Queens, yes! Brooklyn!” Now it was Spot’s turn to roll his eyes and huff. Race’s mouth relaxed in a loose smile. 

“One day,” said Racetrack, his eyes returning back to the sky.

“One day, soon?” 

“What are ya? So eager?”  Race laughed. “One day.” 

Spot narrowed his eyes at him. “That’s not an answer.” 

“Jesus, Spot, I’m not leavin’ ya. I’m just...movin’,” said Race, still trying to reassure Spot.

“I don’t want to lose ya.” Spot said, his hands curling into fists, his entire body taut. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Spotty,” Race looked at Spot and pressed his cold lips against his. The knot in his stomach coming undone, slowly. He kept kissing Race, pulling him close. They stayed like that, wrapped up in blankets with their lips locked for a good while. When they went for air, it fogged in front of them, mixing together in thick clouds of mist. 

Then Spot said it, something that he held in for a long time, had wanted to say for a long time, something buzzing in his brain for the last three months. “I love you,” 

Racetrack’s face once again, imitated a koi fish, his mouth wide in an o, with the color to match of bright red. “W-What?” He stammered, not really believing his ears.

“I love you.” Thankfully, Spot anticipated this. He wasn’t hurt or rejected, he just repeated it. “I’ve loved you for a long time, and...I don’t think I’mma ever goin’ to stop, Racer.” Spot was blushing, rubbing the back of his neck as it turned scarlet. _ That sounded sappy as hell. Was that too sappy? Fuck. Why did I say any of that? _ Thoughts whirled in his mind but he forced himself to stay calm and watch Race’s face.

“You….you love me?” Race pointed to himself, as if in disbelief. 

“Yeah?”

“Ya sure?” 

Spot rolled his eyes. “Yes, Racer, I am pretty damn sure.” 

“Just checkin’ cuz…..I think I love ya too.” Race’s hands fidgeted, searching for some thread poking out, something to do. 

“Really?” Spot teased, his cheeks red. 

“Yeah!!”

“Just checkin’,” Then they laughed. 

“But I mean it,” Spot said after their laugh, watching Race hold his sides and the blanket closer to him. 

“I do too.” 

“Wanna….go inside?” 

“Mhmm.” 

They made their way slowly back to their room, warming up by the stove first, before shutting the door behind them. That night, the newsies that never slept heard moans and whispered words that they barely caught. “I love ya” over and over and over and the mixture of names. Most of them turned pink and covered their faces with pillows to block out the noise. The others, who simply didn’t give a shit, just carried on what they were doing. 

“They be fucking since the strike. Ain’t nothing new.” Warrior told Coffee Beans as together, they sipped their coffee. The next morning, Spot emerged first, his neck thoroughly covered in bruises and love bites. His newsies stared shocked at how many there were. 

“Ya think this is bad? Ya should see Racer,” Spot grinned and there came Racetrack behind him with more hickies, lovemarks, and bitemarks. Again, most averted their eyes and walked to get their papes. Later that day, Spot helped Racetrack move back to Manhattan. “You still don’t have to do this,” He gently reminded him, trying to convince him one last time.

Race gave him a hard look. “One day.” He reminded the King of Brooklyn, who in turn grumbled but let the sleeping dog lie. They arrived, walked in, and let Race find his old room in the original building. “I think this one was mine,” Race walked in the room. “I think.” He shrugged, walked to the bed near the window and plopped down. “Well, it’s mine now!” Slowly, they unpacked the items that Race had either brought with him or gained over his three-month stay at Brooklyn. 

“Hey, Race,” Race turned and Spot kissed him. A romantic, fireworks going off feeling kiss. “Come back, soon, okay?”

“I love ya,” Race replied and kissed him again. 

With one couple down, Davey was up on the roof, convincing Jack and Crutchie to take a room inside. Jack got swept up in some kissing, Crutchie quickly leaving to avoid the two turtledoves and took the bed for until spring thaw. Kid Blink and Mush were arguing on what bed they wanted, who was going to get top or bottom. Albert and Finch settled on a bunk reluctantly after three months of sleeping on a kitchen floor. 

Soon enough, the Newsies settled in their usual routines again. Although there were some changes. Six newsies occasionally stopped by the Jacobs, checking in on their second favorite family. Every Hanukkah, Finch and Albert knocked on the door, ready to assist in the kitchen with the cooking. More newsies came to that party with wild games of dreidel. The biggest change was how often Race’s bunk was empty. He’d be back before the bell but everyone knew.

Old bets were settled, someone racked in a big amount of money. It annoyed the shit out of Spot when Race told him but it faded when Race gave him a big smile. Since the author has no idea how to end this chapter, just think of the slightly infuriating J.K Rowling ending. All was well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to miss writing these idiots.


	12. Let's Talk About Some Sad Shit And Remember The Happy Shit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk. Face to face.

I’m sure, with this final chapter, you know what is coming. We have studied history, reminded of it as to not repeat. A war is coming, the Great War. A war to end all wars and that these boys, our precious boys, were sent to some faraway front with the probability of never coming back. We as readers in the 21st century know this. I implore you to harden your heart as I tell you the rest. 

Crutchie survived through it all. With his leg, there was no use for him on the front, so he stayed behind with the women, however, he was not useless. He spent many hours, working in the factories for the war effort. Jack Kelly and David Jacobs both went and came back with scars both on the body and mind. 

Spot Conlon found himself on the western front, station close to Switzerland, close to the country of his birth. It didn’t bother him that he might kill a kinsmen, every time he stepped out of his trench, he gritted his teeth and did what he did best.  _ Survive. Survive to see Racer again _ . 

The idea was similar to one that Racetrack Higgins had, who hated being addressed as ‘Privet Higgins’ or Tony instead of Race. Still, he survived the eastern front as he did the strike. _ Keep kicking. Keep surviving. Survive to the next day, make it to the end. Then you’ll see Spot. Just focus on Spot.  _ It turned out that Race had  _ good  _ aim, becoming a marksman. Race didn’t mind, his thoughts were similar to the King of Brooklyn. Most of the time, he was numb.

Then after a year, five months, and five days, it was over. The survivors were taken back to Union slowly. Spot got back in Brooklyn in ‘21, reclaiming his title as King of Brooklyn while Racetrack didn’t get back until ‘23. Spot was waiting at the docks, his foot tapping, waiting for those golden curls and bright, blue eyes that got him through the war. Behind closed doors, they crashed against each other, soft sobbing while holding each other close. 

“Spot, Spot,” Racetrack murmured in Spot’s neck, his shoulders shaking.

“I got ya, Racer,” Spot rubbed his back, tears streaming down his face. 

Many did return of ours newsies, however, some did not. When there was a reunion years later, no one could find Jojo or Romeo among the crowd. They raised a toast to their fallen brothers, drinking away the grief that never quite went away. 

Racetrack was born for the twenties with all its parties, the drinking, and  _ the razzle-dazzle _ . Spot could care less about sneaking off to drink but the speakeasies were….different than the old clubs. People didn’t care if you danced with woman or man or in-between. Dancing with Racer out in the open was  _ amazing _ . He’d never forget those nights while men kissed in corners, women danced and drank, wearing pants.

Old people called them “The Lost Generation” but frankly, Race and Spot didn’t care if they were lost. They found each other. Together, Spot and Race hoped they were never found again. When the threadbare thirties came, they were ready. So were Davey and Jack, and all the old newsies. They grew up in hardships and what kind of an idiot put their money in a bank? As they greyed, they stayed together. Racetrack worked with horses while Spot picked up writing. Jack painted while Davey handled business with Les. They grew old doing what they loved. They never married, maybe adopted a couple kids, and lived in the same house. 

I’m sure, reader, that you want me to say that  _ no, they didn’t die _ . I’m sorry but that’s not possible. I don’t want to think about it either but look at this like this. All of them, both Jack, Davey, Racetrack, and Spot left  _ together _ . Old and grey, holding their lover's hand, in sleep that they never woke from. Their family of friends knew to bury them together. But there  _ is  _ a part of that wish that is true. 

Even though it’s been a hundred and thirty-six years since their births, you can still see Racetrack Higgins and Spot Conlon in New York. One day, you’ll pass a boy with curly blonde hair holding hands of a short, dark-haired boy. You’ll see Jack Kelly and Davey Jacobs when you passed an artist painting a masterpiece, while another holds his paints. Occasionally he stops, looks at the other, and smiles brighter than the city power. The other boy, dressed in a blue tank top and jeans, flushes red and accidentally drops the paints. 

They are gone but not really. They lived and breathed in the city that never sleeps, no way they’d leave it so readily behind. And who knows, maybe reincarnation is true and out there, runs a Racetrack Higgins looking for Spot Conlon. A shy, Davey Jacobs is out there meeting Jack Kelly somewhere for the first time. Kid Blink and Mush may be kissing in some hospital, while Crutchie studies for an AP chemistry test. Warrior is somewhere holding her girlfriend's hand, still willing to fight everyone and everything but with a love for writing and anger issues.

They might not be newsies, they might not be strikers or war heros...but they’re out there somewhere. And doesn’t that make your hearts burn with hope?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And....that's it. It's over. Holy shit. This...this turned out way better than I expected it annd...and it's done!!! I never finish writing fanfictions!! I just wanted to say to the ones who stuck around through it all, thank you. I love your comments, even though some of you have very shitty sleeping schedules like myself. To the ones who have randomly stumbled upon this at three am and binged read, go to bed!!!
> 
> I hope everyone who reads this will stick around for the next time I write about these idiots. Which is probably going to be soon because - look at them. They're too fucking cute.   
> With lots of love,   
> Queen.


End file.
